


bells, book, and candlestick

by hazel



Category: Sylvester or the Wicked Uncle - Georgette Heyer
Genre: F/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 06:22:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13001721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazel/pseuds/hazel
Summary: Her Grace Phoebe Rayne, Duchess of Salford, was not known to be a particularly beautiful woman, nor a particularly stylish one.





	bells, book, and candlestick

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anthean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthean/gifts).



> With profound thanks to the #yulecops (arysteia, labellementeuse, sixthlight, morbane, mermaid, kielix, archiesfrog, and tamarillow) and MrsPeel.
> 
> Happy Yuletide, Anthean: this was a lot of fun to write, and I hope it's fun to read.

## I—bells

Phoebe at first had very little to say about the process of preparing her wardrobe for her imminent marriage to the Duke of Salford; she spent the first portion of it following meekly behind her grandmother as that august lady marched into the most fashionable shops of London, smiling like a cat that had just caught the freshest of creams.

The door rang with a quiet tinkle of bells as they entered the establishment of Madame Aiguille, the most exclusive modiste in the city.

“Greens,” Lady Ingham announced, the moment Madame Aiguille introduced herself.

That lady’s eyes narrowed. A buxom woman who claimed to be the sole survivor of a family who had—so sadly—been forced to flee their small estate in the night, Madame Aiguille spoke with a distinct Welsh lilt. Phoebe suspected her of not being French in the slightest. “A soft peach, perhaps, cherie,” Madame retorted.

Phoebe couldn’t recall the last time she had worn peach and did not have an opinion of it either way. “Perhaps,” she said, and Madame Aiguille held the fabric up to her face and helped her stand before a mirror. 

The lady who appeared before her in the mirror seemed to have almost bronzed skin, luminous and clear, with large grey eyes and hair that, while slightly untidy, seemed to match the arch of her fine eyebrows and the curve of her lips. The fabric, a fine silk, felt like liquid in her hands. Phoebe caught her breath. “This will be my wedding dress,” she said, and Madame Aiguille’s mouth curved in satisfaction. 

“You will wish to look through my pattern cards,” she said, showing Phoebe and Lady Ingham to a pair of armchairs hidden behind a curtain, with a seamstress waiting to take Phoebe’s measurements and pour them tea. Phoebe settled down and found herself decidedly opinionated for the rest of the afternoon.

*

“I, Phoebe Elizabeth Marlow, take thee, Sylvester Martin Rayne, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”

The ceiling at St George’s was very tall, and Phoebe felt very small, standing with her hands clasped in Sylvester’s as the morning sun shone through the stained glass windows high above the altar. The Bishop of London, an affable-looking man, had patted Phoebe’s hand comfortingly as he placed it in Sylvester’s, and that had been a comfort on a day Phoebe had found much more nervewracking than expected.

But—oh—the look in Sylvester’s eyes as he stared at her face, the press of his fingers against hers, the swing of her skirts as her father had walked her down the aisle, the way she felt pretty for once—the way she knew, for once, that Sylvester thought her beautiful too.

The rest of the ceremony passed in a series of flashes: their hands shaking as he sat the ring on her finger; the Bishop declaring them husband and wife; the smile on her father’s face and the tears on the Dowager Duchess of Salford’s; Lady Ingham, standing triumphantly amongst her many cronies; the crowd of people standing outside, ready to throw rice and flowers.

And the bells did ring.

## II—book

Her Grace Phoebe Rayne, Duchess of Salford, was not known to be a particularly beautiful woman, nor a particularly stylish one. Nevertheless, the _ton_ was generally thought to hold her in high esteem, both as the lady who had managed to catch the affections of His Grace the Duke of Salford, and as the woman who’d managed to capture his character perfectly in just a few sentences of prose. Her soirees were always well-attended, and her Tuesday afternoon literary salons attracted the attention of every fashionable poet in London and every young matron who wished to gaze adoringly upon them.

It was with some displeasure that Sylvester, Duke of Salford, found himself pacing the length of the west gallery on a cloudy afternoon, loath to interrupt his wife and the catalogue of women she was loudly conversing with about the trials of novel-writing, but nevertheless bored and wanting her attention. He could have taken himself off to the schoolroom and nursery, to look upon his nephew, his daughter, and his heir—but he had done that just the day before, and the nursemaids were very firmly of the opinion that routines must be observed lest the children grow up quite wild. As the Marlows were known to, on occasion, stretch the boundaries of good etiquette in favour of hunting and horse-breeding, and the Raynes were known to, on occasion, act on impulse, Sylvester felt that the nursemaid’s strictures should be adhered to in such matters.

He had with him a missive from Lord Byron—they had never been more than the barest of acquaintances, and his flight to the Continent had caused Sylvester not the slightest agitation, but he had written a very kind letter to Phoebe upon the publication of her second novel, and Sylvester was inclined to support his latest efforts towards Greek independence, no matter how futile or ridiculous, if for no other reason than to see his wife happy. 

A quarter of an hour of pacing later left Sylvester in no doubt that his wife would continue discussing all matters punctuation and plot until the sun went down, and therefore there was little value in Sylvester remaining outside the drawing room when he could be working through the many papers in his study. The letter from Byron could wait until Phoebe saw fit to attend to it, and in the meantime there were always more matters due Sylvester’s attention. 

He was halfway through a letter from the vicar at Chance when Phoebe entered the room. Dressed in pale green with yards of frogging, her hair elegantly curled and the pearl set he had given her last Christmas gleaming at her ears, neck, and wrist, she gave off the impression of nothing so much as a female General, come to discuss matters of state—her eyes quite militant, and her mouth cross. “Sylvester,” she announced, striding into the room.

“Darling?” he asked, one eyebrow lifted. Nothing about her demeanour during their shared breakfast that morning, privately in Her Grace’s sitting room, or the lines of her figure now, led Sylvester to believe that Phoebe was particularly upset with him; but it was clear from her tone that she was upset with some person. Finding out who was, of course, Sylvester’s duty both as a devoted husband and as a man who liked to achieve calm in his household upon occasion. 

“I am becoming quite weary with Mrs Mannering,” she said. “Sylvester, do you think it would be very rude of me to hint that she should perhaps not call for some time?”

Sylvester raised his other eyebrow. His wife was clearly not merely enraged, but also hurt; and that being so, there was nothing to do but reassure her. “My love, the Duchess of Salford may invite or disinvite whoever she chooses,” he said.

Phoebe sighed and took it upon herself to sit on the chaise longue he had acquired for her personal use some years before. Her slippers kicked off, she brought her feet up onto the sofa. Sylvester let his eyebrows drop in consternation and moved to sit beside her, to support her as best he could. “She did not say _outright_ , Sylvester, but she very strongly hinted that perhaps it is time for me to set my quill aside now that I have produced a son. And she told me I was awfully brave to wear this colour.”

“I can have her sent to Cornwall if you wish it, Sparrow,” Sylvester said. “I’m sure Mr Mannering would not miss her presence in the City in the slightest, and no doubt their children would do well in the country, where the air is cleaner and there are gambolling lambs to entertain them.”

Phoebe laughed, but it was a hollow thing. “I do not expect to be _feted_ upon, and I know people sometimes think my novels are scandalous and improper, even if they do not say so; but I do not think—” She sighed, and leaned against his shoulder, letting him wrap an arm around her waist and fold one of her hands in his. 

“You shall do as you wish and write as you wish and cast anybody who dares question you out of all good society with a flick of your fingers if that is your desire,” Sylvester said. 

“Of course you would say that, Sylvester!” Phoebe retorted. “You have never paid the least attention to anybody’s opinion in your life.” Sylvester let his eyebrows arch again; he knew his wife found it amusing, even if they struck fear into almost everybody else. “Oh, well, perhaps _mine_ ,” she added contritely. 

“I am glad you have been paying attention these last years,” Sylvester said dryly. “I would be most distressed to find you unaware of the singular influence you have upon my character.”

“Hush,” his wife insisted, smiling into his cravat, a real smile this time and infinitely better than her earlier unhappy visage. “There’s no need to come all _romantic_ upon me!”

“There is every need, madam,” he rebuked her; but the laughter in his voice belied his words. “And, my lady, if you require Mrs Mannering to be gone from this town I will arrange it so.”

Phoebe bit her lip, thinking about it. “I do not think anything of the sort is necessary,” she said. “I will simply forget to write her an invitation to my next several gatherings.”

Sylvester nodded. “You look lovely in that dress,” he said. “You look as though you could lead an army into battle.”

Phoebe looked up at him at that, and he wondered for the umpteenth time about the glorious length of her eyelashes and whether she understood the effect they could have upon her husband. “I’d just as rather finish this novel,” she said ruefully.

“You have been spending an inordinate time in your writing room lately,” he replied. “I do not resent having to collect you for dinner in the slightest, you understand, but there was a time when you were able to remember to dress yourself.”

The glint in Phoebe’s eyes has been the cause of quite a few locked doors in their married life. “Surely dinner awaits the Duchess of Salford and not the other way around,” she said. “If I should choose to write instead of eat my supper, surely it is nobody’s business—”

“—But that of your husband?” Sylvester interjected. “Darling, I would not wish London to think me neglectful of your person.”

“I do not think anyone could accuse you of _that_ ,” his wife replied, letting her hand brush against his thigh. “I’m merely adrift at present— _Miss Smith and the Last Count of West Fendalton_ sold so very well, and I’m not sure that this novel is of nearly the same degree of quality.”

“Madam, I count myself quite content to no longer be a villain in your works,” he said. “Tell me of your latest plots, Sparrow, and I shall judge for myself.”

## III—candlestick

Mr Howard was known to all the staff of Salford House as a benevolent dictator of a butler. Far from the petty tyrants known to run less exalted households, with their quite unfair insistence on working through the toothache and never making eye contact with the Family, Mr Howard took his habits from those of their Graces themselves, and was unfailingly kind to even the lowest of the footmen, even if he did make a point of checking that their shoes were properly shined and their hair properly slicked back each morning. 

James had come to Salford House six months ago from Rayne, having attracted the favour of no less a personage as the Duchess herself, and was on strict instructions to stand outside the Salford House library with his shoes shined and his hair slicked back whenever Her Grace should choose to work within. Mr Howard had impressed him almost as much as Mr Dalford back at Rayne, and he found himself contemplating the thought of remaining in London—if of course their Graces would allow it—in order to continue walking out with Mary from the kitchens.

His counterpart in hallway duty was Frederick, the sallow young nephew of one of the gardeners. Frederick was in his first month of servitude, and was taking to it reasonably well; James would have no hesitation, upon questioning, at characterising him as a good sort and one well able to withstand the rigours of domestic employment. 

There was little to do in the hallway except listen patiently for sounds that might indicate His or Her Grace had need of a servant, and James mostly thought about the curve of Mary’s lips; he could whisper to Frederick a little, but Mr Howard had impressed firmly on them both the need for Her Grace to hold her concentration, something James was already well familiar with from Rayne, so he tried to mostly be silent.

He was just thinking about the firm contours of Mary’s waist when, inside the library, faint sounds of rustling began to be heard. He exchanged a sly grin with Frederick. “Up to it again, then,” Frederick hissed, and James was trying to suppress a laugh when someone screamed, loud enough to fair shake the building, and there was a loud thud.

“Lord Almighty!” Frederick exclaimed, throwing the doors open before James could stop him.

Inside the room was a shocking scene: Her Grace, standing over the prone body of the Duke of Salford, holding a silver candlestick (which poor Sally had just polished yesterday) and looking down at her husband with chagrin. “She’s killed him!” Frederick gasped, flinging himself out of the room and towards the kitchens, no doubt to cast himself upon the sympathetic breast of Mrs Cooper and wail about how they were all doomed. James had seen this before.

On the floor, His Grace cracked open one eye. “James,” he said sternly.

James winced. “He’s very young, your Grace,” he said apologetically. “I’ll go down and talk to the staff.”

“I think this would make a very fine weapon, Sylvester,” her Grace said thoughtfully. “Though perhaps it is a little heavy for me.” She was clearly still lost in the vision of her latest work, so James quietly exited the room and went down to explain to Frederick and any other new staff that Her Grace had never once killed her husband, and was in fact a notable authoress.

*

Sylvester pushed himself up onto his elbows and gazed up at his wife. She was still holding the candlestick, but had obviously finished processing the feasibility of having Miss Carlington knock Count Von Damme over the head in order to fend off his sinister advances. “Darling,” he said.

“I didn’t actually hit you, did I?” Phoebe asked, looking concerned.

“Not in the slightest,” Sylvester said, pleased that this time, at least, he did not have to lie. The poker to his arm had been decidedly uncomfortable. 

“Your scream was very loud,” Phoebe said. She placed the candlestick down on a side table as Sylvester stood up and took a step towards her.

“It was for veracity,” Sylvester retorted, clasping his wife close to him and leaning forward to kiss delicately along her neck, a technique that had never failed to satisfy his Sparrow.

Phoebe was just working a hand in between them to attack the buttons of his waistcoat when the library doors were flung open. In the doorway stood Mr Howard and Frederick, with James behind them looking utterly dismayed. “Ah,” Mr Howard said. “I was just hoping to reassure young Frederick here of your continued survival; James’ word alone did not convince him. My apologies.”

“As you can see, I am in quite good health,” Sylvester replied, eyebrows arched. Phoebe pressed in closer still, no doubt to reassure herself of just how fine his health was.

“Quite. Your Graces,” Mr Howard said, stepping back and pulling the doors closed.

Phoebe pressed her face into his cravat. “And me, a respectable mother of two, found in such a state in the library!” she said. “Oh!”

“Darling,” Sylvester said soothingly, and moved his hands upon her hips to further comfort his wife. “In the next novel, it can be the butler who did it.”


End file.
